The Lord of the Lyres, The Fellowship of the Lyre
by TheAnonymousAgent506
Summary: Re-release of 2003-2004 original.LOTL:FOTL-Theatrical Version. The One Lyre, bane of Concert Band, comes into the hands of Franky the French Horn player. Can he and the Fellowship of the Lyre keep it from the 9 Percussionists? Thanks to Elise and her Lyre
1. Prologue: One Lyre to Rule Them All

This work was inspired by my friend Elise and her evil lyre that kept  
falling off. Thanks be to marching band for this ridiculous idea, and thanks be to Elise for inspiring it. Thanks also to Elise for helping me  
work out some of the kinks.  
  
_The Band has changed.  
I hear it in the sound.  
I feel it in the music.  
I smell it in the valve oil.  
Much of the emotion it once possessed is now lost,  
For none now remain who can play so well...  
  
It began with the forging of the Great Lyres.  
  
Three were given to the Flutes and Clarinets,  
Fairest, but most annoying, of all Band Members.  
  
Seven, to the Tenor Saxophones,  
Great oddities and masters of range...  
  
And nine,  
Nine Lyres were gifted to the Trumpets,  
Who, above all else,  
Desire power...  
  
For within these Lyres was bound the strength and the will to govern each  
section...  
  
But they were, all of them, deceived,  
For another Lyre was made...  
  
In the Press Box, above the Football Field,  
The Dark Band Director, Mr. R, forged, in secret, a master Lyre, And into this Lyre, he poured his knowledge of drill sets, roll stepping,  
and his will to make all Bands march;  
Once Lyre to Rule Them All!  
  
One by one, the members of the Concert Band fell to the power of the One  
Lyre...  
  
But there were some who resisted...  
  
A last alliance of Brass and Woodwinds threw rocks at the Percussionists of  
the Football Field, And on the steps of the Press Box, they fought for the freedom of the Band.  
Victory was near,  
But the power of the Lyre could not be undone...  
  
It was in this moment,  
When all hope had faded, that Ivan,  
The second chair Trumpet,  
Took up his brother's Horn...  
  
The Band Director, the enemy of the Concert Band members,  
Was defeated...  
  
The One Lyre passed to Ivan,  
Who had this one chance  
To destroy it forever...  
  
But the hearts of trumpets  
Are easily corrupted,  
And the Lyre of Power has a will of its own...  
  
It betrayed Ivan  
To last chair his senior year...  
  
Some music that should not have been forgotten was lost.  
C's became B naturals.  
B naturals became B flats,  
And for two and a half school years,  
The Lyre passed out of all knowledge,  
Until, by chance, it ensnared a new bearer...  
  
The Lyre came to the freshman French Horn Gerald,  
Who took it deep into the darkness of the Instrument Room,  
And there,  
It consumed him.  
  
The Lyre brought to Gerald an unnaturally high range, and he took to playing  
mellophone.  
Until his junior year, it poisoned his mind.  
And in the gloom of his instrument case, it waited...  
  
Darkness crept back into the Band Room,  
Rumor grew of a Shadow on the Football Field,  
Whispers of a nameless fear.  
And the Lyre of Power perceived;  
Its time had now come.  
  
It abandoned Gerald,  
But something happened the Lyre did not intend.  
It was picked up by the most unlikely person imaginable:  
Bryce, a freshman French Horn.  
  
For the time will come  
When French Horns  
will shape the fortunes of us all..._


	2. Concerning Horns

_The twenty-second day of September, in the year 20-hundred-and-4, by Band reckoning. Band End, Band Shot Row, Saxton, the West End, Illinois, United States, the umpteenth millennium of this world._  
  
_"Valve and Oil Again, A French Horn's Tale", by Bryce A. Bacon.  
_  
Bryce chewed a piece of gum thoughtfully. "Now...where to begin? Ah, yes." He opened Word and began to type.  
  
_ "Concerning Horns"...French Horns have been playing and oiling their valve in the four ends of Saxton for many decades or so, quite content to ignore and be ignored by the rest of the Band. The Band being, after all, full of strange people and instruments beyond count, French Horns must seem of little importance, being neither renowned as great players, nor counted among the very loud._  
  
Bryce chuckled to himself, then proceeded to choke on his gum as the chuckling got out of hand. The fact that there had just been an unexpected knock on the door didn't help much either.  
  
"F-Franky! Someone at the door!"  
  
After a quick recovery, Bryce began his typing once more.  
  
_ In fact, it has been remarked by some that French Horns' only real passion is for girly emotional parts in movie scores, a rather unfair observation, as we have also gained a keen interest in intellectual-with-a- hint-of-magical background music and upbeat, Beatles-type band arrangements.  
_  
Bryce paused again, this time with a sigh, in a moment of reflection.  
  
_ But where our hearts truly lie is in peace and quiet, and pieces that make you feel all tingly, for all French Horns share a love of things that move (the emotions, that is)._  
  
_ And yes, no doubt to others, our ways seem cool and aloof, but today, of all days, it is brought home to me that it is no bad thing to celebrate a reserved life._  
  
Bryce discontinued his typing for a moment and slit open a birthday card addressed to him.  
  
The knock came on the door again.  
  
"God...Franky, the door! Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring! Where the hell is he?" 


	3. A Half Expected Arrival

"Franky!"  
  
Franky ignored his cousin's calls, flipping through his Arban's book. Right now, triplets were more important than whatever Bryce wanted.

Franky Bacon, due to the fact that his parents had disappeared some years earlier in a mysterious incident involving a tuba, a pair of drumsticks, and a conductor's baton, now lived with his cousin Bryce, who had instructed him intensely in the art of French horn. Even though Franky was just a sophomore in high school, he and Bryce were almost equally matched in skills. He had all the dorky charm of Elijah Wood, just with a good deal more pimples and less stunning eyes. But hey, what can you do?  
  
"What're you doin' out here, Franky? Bryce is callin' ya."  
  
Franky hadn't noticed the arrival of an old, beat-up station wagon in the park parking lot. He recognized the voice, and his head shot up immediately.  
  
"Guy!" Franky shot up and after the giant of a man stepping out of the car, the speakers of which were blaring "Smoke on the Water". "What's up?"

Guy towered over Franky and his cousin by at least 8 inches, maybe more. He had the weirdest goatee thing on his face, but looks didn't matter when you had skills like Guy's; in the city, he was known as Guy the Wiz. He could play almost every instrument known to the modern world, and then some. Guy was a force to be reckoned with.  
  
"Aw, nothin'. The usual."  
  
"What's up in the city? What're they doing out in the world?"  
  
"Ha, bet you're about the only one here who gives a damn. I'll get to that...uh...well, we'll talk later.  
  
"So this party, it's going to be big?"  
  
"Duh."  
  
"Oh, right. This is Bryce we're talking about."  
  
Franky nodded, seemingly in thought. "You know...Bryce has been acting really weird lately."  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Yeah. Like...he shuts himself up for hours on end in the computer room. Sometimes, I can't hear a sound except for typing and mouse-clicking, but other times, he'll be practicing. And it doesn't sound like his regular French horn. It sounds...I don't know...higher, I guess. Louder. I'm not sure."  
  
Guy tried not to look too concerned. "It's probably nothin'. I'll talk to him though." They both paused. More thinking. "Here," Guy said suddenly, "come 'round the back here. I've got something t'show ya."  
  
Franky curiously followed Guy to the back of the hatchback. Guy popped the lid.  
  
"Holy crap!" Franky was staring at a huge assortment of pyrotechnics, all colors, shapes, and sizes. "Mark and Perry are gonna have a field day!"  
  
"No, not those. I'm talkin' about this case."  
  
"Oh. Big deal. It's a case."  
  
"Oh, just you wait." Guy now popped the lid on the case to reveal...  
  
"Oh my God! That's the most beautiful horn I've ever seen! Shiny..." Franky stared into the super-polished, silver glory of a new French horn. "What's it for?"  
  
"The jazz band decided at the last minute the needed a French horn player, and I volunteered. I decided to get this just for the occasion."  
  
"Brasswind catalogue?"  
  
"Ebay."  
  
"Of course. Hey, you don't mind droppin' me off at Sam's, do you? He needs moral support when he's stalking Rebecca."  
  
"Ha ha, sure. I'm gonna run over and see Bryce after that."

* * *

Guy tapped on Bryce's apartment door. Tents and food and other such things were being set up in the parking lot; Bryce had made sure everything was clear for his party.  
  
There was a sudden faltering of notes, a pause, and, "What the hell do you want? Mom, if it's you, I won't go to college if you keep nagging! Either way, no more visitors, prying neighbors, or annoying relations!"  
  
"What about old high school friends?"  
  
There was a short falling of footsteps, and Bryce opened the door.

Bryce looked quite similar to his cousin, though his acne had cleared up years before, and he wasn't quite so charming. But we'll forgive him.

"Guy! Hey, I didn't know if you'd make it or...what?"  
  
"Since when is your range so high?"  
  
"I...well, I've been practicing..."  
  
"Right..."  
  
"Well, come in, come in! We've got some catchin' up to do! Here, let me take that." Bryce took Guy's jacket and threw it over a chair as they entered. "You want anything?"  
  
"What've you got?"  
  
"Root beer and...let me check..." Bryce shuffled back to the kitchen. Shouting back, he said, "Uh...half a beer, five six-packs of root beer and...more root beer."  
  
"I'll take root beer." Guy escorted himself through the living room and into the kitchen, but not before noting, with some curiosity, large stacks of what looked like applications and brochures. Guy sat down in an aged, retro chair, and Bryce handed him a root beer. No sooner had Guy lifted it to his lips than there was a violent rapping on the door.  
  
"Bryce Bacon!"  
  
Bryce choked on his root beer and flattened to the wall. "I'm not here!"  
  
The rapping continued for a few seconds before it abated and the sound of someone pounding down the steps outside was heard.  
  
"I'm fed up of 'concerned' family members hanging around my door all day. They're not concerned for me really; they just want to know if I'm going to be a stay-at-home looser my whole life." Bryce sighed a sort of defeated sigh. "I gotta get outta here, Guy. I wanna see the city again. I wanna here the symphonies and see all those weird, art house type films we don't get to see here.  
  
"I want a vacation...a really, really long vacation...that I plan on not coming back from..."  
  
"So you're going through with it? You know, I know a guy who knows a guy who can still introduce you to his friend crack."  
  
"No, no..."  
  
"Franky's not going to take this well..."  
  
"I-I know...I thought about taking him with me...but he's old enough to take care of himself now...and I really don't think he'll want to leave anyway, not in his heart, at least."  
  
"That's deep."  
  
"Yeah, I thought so too."

* * *

Dusk had fallen, and Guy and Bryce sat on the steps of the apartment, watching the party get under way, and blowing bubbles. A butterfly fluttered from Bryce's wand. "This is so gay."  
  
A stunning replica of the Mona Lisa floated from Guy's. "Yeah, but it's better than smoking, and it's fun."  
  
Bryce put his bubble clumsily aside, and they spilled all over Mark and Perry below. Perry cursed loudly. "Guy, this party is going to kick ass."


	4. A Really, All Together Excellent Party

Guy, being the multi-talented marvel that he was, had somehow managed to get the fireworks to launch themselves so that he could sit in with the band. Probably by computer, but seeing as how most normal people didn't go walking around with pyrotechnics programs on their laptops, no one could really be sure. The point is little kids were running around in amazement, and adults were ooh-ing and ah-ing as pattern after pattern and color after color exploded amongst the stars above them.  
  
Franky and Sam were sitting near the dance floor, talking, laughing, and watching the people good enough, drunk enough, or stupid enough to dance. Actually, Franky was doing the talking and laughing; Sam was fixated on Rebecca the French Horn Hooker. Franky, eventually, took notice.  
  
"Why don't you go ask her t'dance, Sam? I think they're playing a slow song next."  
  
Sam pushed his glasses up his nose and fiddled with the inhaler in his pocket. "No...no, I can't. I don't wanna. It's too soon. I haven't even hardly talked to her...I...ah, God!" Sam took a huge draw off his inhaler as the band began to play "Let's Get It On", and he saw Rebecca striding purposefully toward him.  
  
"Hey."  
  
"H-h-hey."  
  
"Wanna dance?"  
  
###  
  
"This one?" Perry called from the back of Guy's station wagon.  
  
"No, dumb ass. The big one." Mark peered around the side of the car to make sure no one was watching. They weren't.  
  
"Are you sure that's a Roman candle?"  
  
"Yeah, positive. Here, get all of 'um."  
  
Perry came out of the station wagon with a whole armful of Roman candles. "Now what?"  
  
"Stick'em in the ground."  
  
"But we're on concrete."  
  
"I...uh...well, we'll just light 'em and see what happens. Just throw 'em on the ground here."  
  
Perry did as he was instructed, and Mark pulled a lighter out of his pocket. "Right, I'll light 'em, and when I say so, run. Ready?" Perry nodded, and Mark put the lighter to each candle. Much to Mark and Perry's dismay, the rockets started to spin madly in circles, shooting sparks in ever direction. "RUN!" Mark and Perry dashed back towards the party as the candles started to fly in all directions. A few chose the path of straight through the party.  
  
Screaming shook the apartment complex as rockets zoomed around people's ankles. One by one, they shot up into the air, bursting into oblivion in a shower of multicolored sparks. The crowed forgot their terror and cheered as loud as they had screamed.  
  
"I think we both deserve a congratulations, don't you think, Perry?"  
  
"I think I agree, Mark."  
  
"Well, I don't."  
  
Mark and Perry stood stock still as a pair of large, menacing hands grabbed them forcefully by the hoods of their sweatshirts. They risked a looked backwards at their captor. Guy was towering above them, smirking in fiendish delight. "I think I've got a job for you two."  
  
###  
  
"Speech! Speech!"  
  
The band had stopped playing now, and Bryce stood atop 4 overturned kegs and a couple of planks, ready to deliver his birthday speech. The party-goers had brought lawn chairs, the kind with footrests; Bryce's speeches were notoriously long-winded.  
  
"My dear Bacons and Biffars!"  
  
There was a huge deal of cheering.  
  
"Tonkses and Brookses!"  
  
Another huge round of cheering, almost as large as the last.  
  
"Geesemans!"  
  
"Eh!"  
  
"Cheesemans!"  
  
"Eh!"  
  
"Hoocks and and Ballards!"  
  
A hearty round of cheering.  
  
"Browers...and Plowmans!"  
  
"PlowMEN!" A tall, thin man with a cigar stuck in his moth corrected.  
  
"Bah, whatever.  
  
"Today is my twenty-fifth birthday!"  
  
"Happy birthday, by the way, Franky," Sam whispered, lip prints dotted randomly over his face.

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY!" roared the crowd.

Bryce's cheerful, half-drunk tone softened a bit. "Alas, twenty-five years is far too short a time to live among such excellent and admirable band people."

The party-goers nodded and cheered. They agreed.

Bryce continued. "I'd rather not say confusing things because I know none of you will get it because you're not nearly as smart as me, and I don't want this party to end on a sour note. That being said..." Bryce's voice softened even more, and an awkward silence settled over the scene. Franky's face fell; he half-knew what was coming. Guy sat further on the edge of his chair, nervously pumping the valves on the horn. "I-I...um...have things to do..." Bryce fiddled with something in his pocket. 'This has been a long time coming,' he mumbled to himself.

The whole lot of people were now squirming to the edges of their seats, waiting for Bryce to spit out what he was going to say. The bass player plucked a tune to fit the mood until Guy smacked him.

"I regret to announce," he finally said loudly, "this is the end. I'm going now." He looked Franky in the eye wiltingly. "Goodbye." And, followed by a huge gasp from the crowd, he vanished.


	5. Disappearances

An invisible Bryce chuckled to himself as numerous cries of "HOLY CRAP!" and "OH MY GOD!" reached his ears. Sliding, undetected, back into his apartment, he released the Lyre, still laughing at his own cleverness, and placed it back in his pocket.  
  
"Think you're funny, huh?"  
  
Bryce leapt about a foot in the air before spinning to face a disapproving Guy. He heaved a grateful sigh. "God, you scared the crap out of me."  
  
Guy glared at Bryce in blatant disapproval. "There are a ton of magic Lyres, and you can't just go screwing around and do anything you damn well please with them."  
  
Bryce rolled his eyes. "Aw, lighten up. It was just a harmless little prank."  
  
"Be that as it may..." Guy growled.  
  
"Whatever."  
  
Guy seated himself in one of the living room chairs, expression no less harsh. "So now what are you going to do?"  
  
"Just like I planned. I'm leaving all this to Franky. He's only 16, but I think he can handle it."  
  
Guy raised an eyebrow. "Even the Lyre?"  
  
Bryce's jaunty air wilted, and he ran a delicate hand over the lump in his pocket. "Yeah, yeah...all of it, just like I said...actually...maybe I'll just go ahead and hold on to the Lyre. It's mine anyway...my love...my preciousss..."  
  
"What are you smoking?"  
  
Bryce ignored Guy and drew the object tenderly from his pocket.  
  
Guy sprung from the chair in a sudden rage. "Put it down!"  
  
"NO, DAMN IT! IT'S MINE!"  
  
Guy knocked the Lyre from Bryce's grasp and across the floor, narrowly missing his nose. Bryce shrieked and scuttled after it, but too late; Guy already had him pinned against the wall. Bryce wriggled and fought and made a couple of attempts to bite, which soon ceased as Guy struck him across the face. "Will you cool it!"  
  
Bryce's senses came falling back to him, and he slumped to the baseboard. "I need to get out of here..." he mumbled, staring, wide-eyed, at the floor. "You're right. I'm leaving it. I'm leaving it all." Bryce struggled up and scurried to the bedroom, coming back minutes later with two suitcases. He set them down gently by the back door and extended a hand to Guy. "Well, it was good to know you, Guy."  
  
Guy smiled knowingly and returned the handshake. "You too, man."  
  
"Well, see ya later." Bryce smiled regretfully and made his way to a taxi waiting on the street outside.  
  
"Sooner than you think, Bryce, sooner than you think." 


	6. Keep it Secret, Keep it Safe

**This one goes out to BandNerd97. I've never been anyone's hero before...**

**PS: If you haven't seen the movie, this is where I'll start to lose you.**

* * *

After downing a couple stolen root beers, Guy ventured to pick up Bryce's Lyre. The image of a man wearing white socks with brown shoes and a black belt flashed before Guy's vision, followed by a splitting headache. Guy decided it wasn't such a hot idea to pick the Lyre up.

Slowly, a suspicion that had been weighing on the back of his mind came to light...

* * *

"Bryce?"

Franky stepped apprehensively into his cousin's apartment. All was silent, except for the ticking of a clock in the kitchen. With a start, he noticed Guy sitting in the living room, blowing the bubbles as he had done earlier. A bubbly replica of "The David" floated up from the wand. Franky made his way to Guy, but before he could melodramatically utter his name, a dull gleam caught the corner of his eye; Bryce's Lyre. He glanced at Guy, as if looking for reassurance, but all he got was an Eifel Tower in his face and a terrible burning sensation in his eyes. Guy muttered something that sounded like "Riddles in the Instrument Room", and then "My preciousss..." before Franky bent to pick up the Lyre.

It was quite a plain thing, even by the standards of Lyres. No company logo had been etched into it, no random name or obscenity scrawled.

"Yes, Franky. He's finally gone to get a higher education. He's left it to you. That thing you have there in your hand. And the whole place. And all the crap in it." Guy placed the bubble wand back in the bottle and pulled himself out of the chair. "Think you can handle it all?"

"Yes, but..."

Guy thrust a small wooden box before Franky. Franky gave Guy a questioning look with his watery blue eyes before slowly placing the Lyre amongst the folds of red velvet.

"Put that somewhere, where no one will see it."

Franky made his way to the kitchen and threw it in the silverwear drawer.

* * *

"Where are you going?"

"I've gotta see a guy about some stuff." Guy was making his way hurridly towards the door, a case of root beer under each arm.

"What kinda stuff?"

"Important stuff."

"But you just got here!" Franky paused as Guy was just about to go out the door. Then he said, rather meekly, "What the hell, Guy? What the hell?"

Guy sighed and turned. "Yeah, I don't get it either," he said, his voice and body wilting. "Keep it secret. Keep it safe."

* * *

A heavy rain pelted down upon the Football Field, and a anguished cry ripped through the air. "SAXTON! BACOOOOOON!"

Out from the Consession Stand, in a whirlwind of mad drumming, erupted the Nine Percussionists, led by the Drum Major of the Candy Bar. They were tall, dark, and handsome (except for the one, but he was at least dark and handsome)...but really, really terrible. Reeeeeeeeeally terrible. Really really really awesomely bad. And then some.


	7. The Account of Ivan

**Any questions asked in reviews that I feel need to be answered will be posted in my blog (see my bio page for the site). Thanks! **

**Angry reviews welcome!**

* * *

Guy made all speed to the Band Room. Off in the distance, thunder rumbled over the Football Field.

One of the Trumpet players led him to a cramped room, filled to bursting with folder upon folder of pieces. Guy handed him a root beer. "Buy yourself something pretty."

Guy shuffled through sheet after sheet of music, old announcements and notices, and notes that had been stolen from delinquent children. No luck. He took another swig of root beer and made to get up, but something caught his eye amidst a stack of parts for "Black Horse Troop". Guy tugged it gently from the pile and began to read it.

_August 24, 2001, of my 2nd year. Here follows the account of Ivan, First Chair of the Trumpets of the Band Room, and the finding of the Lyre of Power._

Guy's heart leapt, and he picked up another page.

_It has come to me; the One Lyre. It shall be an heirloom of my section. All those to take my chair shall be bound to its fate, for I would risk no hurt to the Lyre. It is precious to me, though I buy it with a great pain ($20! For a Lyre?!) _

_The markings upon the stem begin to fade. The writing, which, at first, was as clear as Edward's brain (which is non-existant, I tell you. Stupid Flute.), has all but disappered, a secret now that only root beer can tell._

Guy scrambled for his root beer, then realized he didn't have the Lyre. "Damn it!" Then he realized the bottle was empty. "Damn it!"

"Little French Horn loser!"

A mysterious Snare Drummer beat on Perry's door with his sticks. There was a good deal of grumbling, a click of a lock being unlatched, and the door creaked open. "Oh shit." Perry's dad turned white as new sheet music.

"Do the words 'Saxton' and 'Bacon' mean anything to you?"

"They're not at this end of town! They're up that way!" Perry's dad dashed back in the house and slammed the door.


End file.
